


How to Win Friends

by moonlighten



Series: Feel the Fear [56]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Background Relationships, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-08
Updated: 2013-01-08
Packaged: 2017-11-24 04:39:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/630533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonlighten/pseuds/moonlighten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>December, 2009: An Englishman, a Scotsman and a Welshman enjoy a family Christmas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How to Win Friends

**24th December, 2009; London, England**  
  
  
 "Whose bright idea was this, anyway?"  
  
England glared at his brother. "It was yours, you prat."  
  
"Hmm." Scotland frowned, tapping his chin with an index finger. "No, I don’t think it was."  
  
"I thought you remembered _everything_ , Scotland." England affected an exaggerated Scottish accent, and continued: " _Why don’t you have a really big do_ , you said. _You could even ask Canada to bring his new boyfriend_."  
  
"Doesn’t ring any bells." Scotland’s expression was a study in impassivity, but England chose to interpret his disregard of the unflattering impression as a tacit acceptance of culpability. "You don’t half talk some crap, England."  
  
As it was the season of goodwill, and England was a gentleman, he resisted the urge to knee Scotland in the balls as hard as he could. Instead, he turned to look through the living room window again. Much to his disappointment, the scene inside remained unchanged.  
  
"And even if I did say that – which I definitely didn’t – I wouldn’t have had any idea who it was at the time, would I? So I would be completely blameless, in any case." Scotland also returned his attention to the window, digging his elbow into England’s shoulder as he leant over him to get a better view. "Fuck’s sake… It’s no wonder he kept it a secret, is it?"  
  
England wasn’t so certain anymore that Canada had been keeping it a secret, per se. Granted, England had only found out he was dating _anyone_ in the first place because France had been dropping coy little hints for months beforehand, but Canada had made no attempts to deny anything when England finally realised exactly what it was France had been insinuating, and asked him if it was true.  
  
He wished he’d had the foresight to dig a little deeper and find out who the other party was at the time – he’d become distracted by some idiotic thing America was doing, and the thought slipped his mind – or even more recently, when he rang to invite Canada and his plus one for Christmas – he’d simply said, "Splendid, I look forward to it," when Canada enthusiastically accepted, and then mentally adjusted the size of the turkey he was going to have to buy.  
  
Before England had chance to reply to Scotland, however, Wales shouted from the driveway behind them: "What the hell are you two doing lurking around out here?"  
  
"Spying on Canada," Scotland shouted back, almost as loudly.  
  
"Christ, keep your fucking voices down," England hissed, ducking out from beneath Scotland’s arm and spinning on his heel to face Wales. "Wales, we’re not exactly spying, as such, we’re just… Just observing. From a neutral position."  
  
"Your flowerbed is a neutral position?" Wales dropped his bags on the drive, and walked towards England and Scotland. "You’re crushing the poor buddleias, by the way."  
  
Scotland grabbed Wales by the front of his thick coat as he drew near, and then pulled him towards the window. "Look at that," he said, pressing the tip of his finger against the glass.  
  
"Oh,  _Seland Newydd_ and _Awstralia_ are here already," Wales said, smiling as he caught sight of them inside, "that’s –" His eyes widened and his smile froze, becoming a little brittle-looking. "Fucking hell, is that Prussia? What’s he doing here…? Jesus, don’t tell me _he’s_ –"  
  
"Canada’s boyfriend?" Scotland seemed to take great relish in confirming Wales’ supposition. "It appears so."  
  
"But, Canada’s so… He’s so…" Wales waved his hands around, apparently trying to communicate some quality of Canada’s, but it was one which England was unable to decipher from the random movements. "And Prussia’s –"  
  
"A prick." Scotland shrugged. "Yeah, we haven’t got the foggiest idea what’s going on, either. England reckons Canada must have been brainwashed or something."  
  
The idea seemed more than a little stupid upon hearing it repeated. "I didn’t say those precise words," England rushed to clarify, "just that he might not be thinking clearly at the moment. A temporary lapse in judgement, perhaps."  
  
Wales removed the Santa hat he was wearing, and twisted it between his hands as he digested this information. "Maybe… Maybe he’s just acting out," he said after a moment’s silent cogitation. "You know, attention seeking. Apparently kids do it all the time."  
  
"Have you been watching Jeremy Kyle again, Wales?" The slight reddening of Wales cheeks suggested that he had indeed lapsed back into his old daytime viewing habits, and Scotland laughed. "Anyway, he’s not a kid, is he?"  
  
"Well, he’s our kid. Kind of. And we’re the nearest thing he’s got to parents, I guess."  
  
"And we what…? Didn’t hug him enough when he was little so now he can’t help but be attracted to complete twats?" Scotland asked, shaking his head. "Last I heard, he had a thing for Ukraine. She’s a lovely lass; what happened with that?"  
  
"That was years ago, Scotland, and I don’t think anything did," said England, who was a little disturbed to realise that he had absolutely no clue exactly how many years ago it was, nor if anything he was saying was actually true. "You know, maybe Wales has a point…"  
  
"Wales is talking out of his arse, as per usual," Scotland said, squaring his feet and folding his arms across his chest. "We’ve always been fantastic big brothers to him. Especially me, because I’ve had so much practice dealing with you two idiots."  
  
Despite Scotland’s frequent claims to the contrary, England could not recall a single instance of him being a fantastic big brother to anyone, much less Canada.  
  
"You know," he said, "I think my memory must be going; I can’t remember anything like that at all. Why don’t you remind me?"  
  
"I taught him to fight with a sword, didn’t I?" Scotland swung an imaginary sword, and then plunged it into England’s guts. "He picked it up really fast; much quicker than either of you, anyway."  
  
"Erm, _Yr Alban_ , that was America, not Canada," Wales said.  
  
"It was?" Scotland looked genuinely surprised. "Okay then, how about… How about that time I took him camping, and we stayed up all night and I taught him the names of the stars?"  
  
"That was America, too," England corrected, "and also me not you, you pillock."  
   
"Okay, okay. Well, I bought him that wee set of bagpipes, and –"  
  
"Also America," Wales said. "Remember, he used to make an awful racket, and it drove us all mad until _Lloegr_ finally snapped and set fire to them?"  
  
"Fuck." Scotland’s brow furrowed and he frowned, obviously trying to dredge up some memory of Canada which might not even exist. "Ha," he said at length, "I taught him how to swim! And I know it was definitely him, because I can remember a lot of shrieking in French."  
  
"You chucked him into the middle of a lake, and told him that ‘he’d better hurry up and learn before he sank’," Wales said. "It was a good job _Lloegr_ happened to be passing by and fished him out, because he sank pretty bloody quickly. He cried non-stop for about an hour afterwards." This last was accompanied by a dark scowl in Scotland’s direction.  
  
England had only the vaguest memories of the incident in question, but had no doubts that it had happened exactly as Wales described. Wales had always had a particular soft spot for both New Zealand and Canada, and recalled their childhoods in far greater detail than England ever could, even at the time.  
  
Scotland scowled back at Wales. "I don’t remember you two being any better. You –" he pointed at England – "always played favourites, and you –" he jerked his thumb towards Wales – "couldn’t be bothered with either of them most of the time because you were too busy whinging about your fucking _hiraeth_ every time we were away from home for more than ten minutes. Or writing shitty poetry about it."  
  
"Shitty poetry?" Wales seemed to grow a couple of inches, and bristled like an angry cat. "I’ll have you know that…"  
  
England tuned out his brothers’ bickering with the ease born of long practice. He supposed he _had_ paid more attention to America when he and Canada were children, but then Canada had been quiet, polite, and respectful, whereas America was… Well, America, and impossible to ignore. He also supposed that the same was true now the two of them were adults, and sometimes it didn’t cross his mind for months on end to call Canada and check how he was faring, but he always excused himself on the grounds that Canada could usually be relied on to be carrying on much the same as he always had and doing the right thing most of the time.  
  
England tuned back into the conversation when his musings were suddenly interrupted by the sound of his name. "What about me?" he asked.  
  
"I said, Prussia never mentioned anything to you about Canada, then?" Scotland sounded a little irritated at having to repeat himself. "You still go out drinking with him sometimes, don’t you?"  
  
"Only very occasionally, and we never talk about anything like _that_ ," England said.  
  
Their evenings usually started out with reminiscing about the times they’d kicked France’s arse, then progressed onto Prussia complaining about Austria and Germany whilst England didn’t really listen, and England complaining about his siblings whilst Prussia didn’t really listen. After that point, they’d be too drunk to conduct any conversation beyond arguing about whose turn it was to buy the next round. He didn’t think he’d ever discussed anything personal with Prussia in all the years they’d known one another.  
  
Wales nodded once, and then asked, "So what are we going to do?"  
  
"Do?" England asked, puzzled. "Why should we do anything?"  
  
"You know, save Canada from himself, maybe," Wales said, sounding a little uncertain now. "An intervention, or whatever it's called."  
  
England had a sneaking suspicion now that more than Jeremy Kyle was at play, and that some of America’s self-help books might have found their way into Wales’ possession somehow. "He’s an adult, and a sensible lad when all’s said and done. It’s not really our place to interfere. I’m sure he’ll come to his senses eventually."  
  
England hoped to God he would: if a problem of an emotional nature couldn’t be solved by the liberal application of either tea or alcohol to all parties involved, then he was completely at sea. He’d just never been much good at the let’s-all-hug-and-talk-about-our-feelings crap, and he knew his brothers weren’t either. From the slightly uncomfortable-looking expressions on Wales and Scotland’s faces, he guessed their thoughts had followed much the same path as his own, and presumably even Wales was reconsidering what might be a suitable course of action to take.  
  
"England’s right, for once in his life. We’re best off keeping well out of it," Scotland said eventually. "I think our biggest concern at the moment is probably how Jersey’s going to react when she arrives tomorrow and finds out Prussia’s here. The rest'll probably work itself out for the best on its own."  
   
"How Jersey’s going to react? Why would that be a problem?" England asked.  
  
"Man, she never told you what happened with him during the occupation?"  
  
England’s stomach felt as though it had suddenly dropped to somewhere near his feet, and his right hand clenched involuntarily into a fist. "No, she never mentioned anything about him. What the hell did that bastard do to her?"  
  
Scotland’s eyebrows shot up into his tousled fringe. "Fuck, no, England, it wasn’t anything like that. You know Jersey would have castrated him before the thought even finished crossing his mind.  
  
"Nah, she just found him really, really irritating. You know how he is; apparently, every time he was there, he’d just parade around her place like he owned it, going on and on about how awesome he is, whilst all she could do was smile and nod along. She says it took every bit of her willpower not to twat him on sight towards the end, and damn the consequences."  
  
"Oh." England’s hand slowly relaxed. "Well, although I can certainly understand the sentiment, I hope –"  
  
"Hey, old man, where do you keep your bottle opener?" Australia’s voice cut across England’s, drowning out the rest of his words.  
  
England was a little startled by the interruption, and it took him a moment to gauge which direction the question had come from. Eventually, he spotted Australia standing by the front door, and waved to acknowledge him when their eyes met.  
  
"Bottle opener?" Australia asked again, miming opening a bottle as though he suspected England was unaware of the existence of such an implement.  
  
"Um, top drawer nearest the sink, where it’s always been."  
  
"Thought so." Australia ducked back through the door, only to reappear a moment later to ask: "This might be a stupid question, but why have you guys been standing out here for the past hour? I was going to draw the curtains earlier, but Canada said to leave them. He thought you might be taking part in some weird British Christmas tradition or something."  
  
England quickly tried to construct some sort of plausible lie, but his imagination failed him. "He’s right, that’s exactly what it is. Just one of our weird traditions. That we do. Every year. You’ve just never noticed us doing it before."  
  
Australia looked a little sceptical as far as England could tell in the low light, but he seemed to buy the explanation, regardless, as he shrugged and said: "Well, you’d better wrap whatever it is up quickly; _QI_ ’s about to start. You said you didn’t want to miss it."  
  
"We’ll be right in," England said.  
  
Wales shook his head as soon as Australia disappeared inside the house again. "I don’t how you ever managed to convince anyone that you're some sort of master of espionage, _Lloegr_. You should be ashamed of yourself," he said. "This is just embarrassing."  
  


 

* * *

  
  
  
**25th December, 2009; London, England**  
  


 

Christmas Day dawned grey, dreary and drizzling, as was its wont. England stared blearily out of his bedroom window at his rain-sodden garden, and contemplated going back to bed for a few hours, if not the rest of the day.  
  
He didn't think he'd had more than a couple of hours' sleep the night before, having spent most of it in a state of hyper-vigilance, ears straining for the slightest sound, and wishing he had put Canada in any room save the one next to his own. Although he was well aware that he wouldn't have been able to look Canada in the eye for the foreseeable future if he'd heard anything which suggested anything of an intimate nature was occurring beyond his bedroom wall, he still couldn't help being more than a little concerned for Canada's well-being, no matter what he'd said to Scotland and Wales about keeping their noses out of the whole affair.  
  
He didn't know what he'd been worried about, exactly, just that he was. Prussia had actually been remarkably inoffensive in the hour or so they'd all watched TV together before Canada's jet lag caused him to plead exhaustion and retire to his bed, although that could have had something to do with the fact that Scotland had seated himself on the sofa between the two of them, and glowered murderously at Prussia every time he so much as glanced in Canada's direction. Nevertheless, England's brain persisted with a sort of low level, wordless nagging that kept him awake long past the time he was capable of actively thinking about anything coherent, and his body felt heavy enough to sink straight through the mattress to the floor below.  
  
Around four o'clock, when he'd heard nothing more than the gentle groaning of the house's frame settling and the intermittent rattle of the central heating for several hours, he had briefly contemplated bunking with one of his other guests in the hopes that a change of scenery would rid him of the compulsion to obsess about the whole situation. He'd quickly dismissed the notion as just as ridiculous as what he was already doing, however, because Wales and Australia both snored, Scotland kicked like a mule, and New Zealand always stole all the covers.  
  
He looked longingly back at his bed for a time, imagining himself cocooned snugly in the thick duvet, but then reminded himself firmly that he had jobs to do. Jersey, Guernsey and Isle of Man were due to arrive shortly, and he had breakfast to cook for at least ten people, most of whom seemed to believe that some sort of breakfast fairy lived with England, and would never even consider getting their arses out of bed in time to lend a hand.  
  
England was surprised, therefore, to discover Canada, of all people, already pottering around the kitchen when he eventually managed to drag himself downstairs.  
  
"What on earth are you doing up so early?” England asked through a jaw-cracking yawn.  
  
Canada closed the door to the cupboard he'd been looking in, and spun around, looking a little guilty.  
  
"Making pancakes for Prussia,” he said, stammering slightly. "It's not a problem, is it?”  
  
For one horrible, muddled instant, England was certain that ‘making pancakes' was a euphemism for something he really didn't want to contemplate, but then he noticed that Canada was clutching a bag of flour, and sighed out the breath he'd been holding.  
  
"You don't have to fend for yourselves. I'm just about to start cooking, and I've got enough food in to feed an army.” Upon catching sight of Canada's slightly crestfallen expression, however, he added: "But _mi casa es su casa_ , you know that. Please, carry on.”  
  
"Thanks,” Canada said, smiling. "Oh, and Merry Christmas, England.”  
  
"Merry Christmas to you, too.” England managed to summon up an answering smile despite feeling far from festive, and then proceeded to his fridge to try and unearth the breakfast things from the densely packed mass of food inside.  
  
Even though only a thin sliver of light was able to force itself through the veritable forest of bottles on the top shelf, England eventually managed to retrieve the bacon, sausages, eggs, and black pudding, but the white pudding appeared to be lost for the duration. As England himself was the only one who actually liked the stuff, he gave up on it, assuming that it would doubtless resurface on the day after Boxing Day once everything else had been devoured.  
  
Canada was still smiling faintly when England finally emerged from his exploration of the fridge, and quietly humming something that sounded like a Christmas carol as he stirred his large bowl of pancake batter. England couldn't quite place the tune, but it was familiar enough that he found himself whistling along with it in parts.  
  
He dumped the pile of food on the counter nearest the Aga, and then started the hunt for one of his sharp knifes. They always seemed to disappear after Scotland was tasked with the drying up, even though he knew full well where everything's proper place in the kitchen was. England suspected that it was a ploy to be relieved of the task for reasons of incompetence, so never pressed the issue, forgoing the satisfaction he would no doubt feel in doing so.  
  
"I don't suppose you've seen my knife set, have you?” England asked Canada, when his search of a third drawer also proved to be fruitless. "Scotland seems to have hidden it again.”  
  
"I haven't, sorry.”  
  
Something about the way Canada's hair fell or the way the light hit him as he turned his head drew England's attention to the fact that there was a small bruise on his neck, just beneath the curve of his jaw. The amorphous anxiety England had been feeling since the previous day suddenly coalesced into something much more solid and urgent.  
  
Before his conscious mind had even finished processing the question of whether or not he should say something, England found himself standing in front of Canada with one hand clasping Canada's left shoulder and his mouth forming the words: "You can talk to me about anything any time you need to.”  
  
Canada blinked slowly several times. "Okay,” he said, drawing out the first vowel.  
  
The adrenaline, or whatever it had been that had propelled England across the kitchen just an instant before, seemed to drain away just as quickly as it had arrived, leaving him floundering in its wake.  
  
"I... I just thought you should know that,” he said, desperately hoping for divine providence to intervene and gift him with some sort of idea of what to do next.  
  
Nothing divine appeared to have its eye on England at that moment in time – which was doubtless his own fault for not having attended church for the past fifty years – and inspiration failed to strike. Canada remained silent, staring at England's hand with a pensive expression, as though he expected it to explode at any time. England followed his gaze, wondering whether he should let go, or if that would seem dismissive.  
  
The seconds seem to stretch out like hours, but England still couldn't decide what his best course of action was. Pulling Canada into a hug seemed like a viable option, but that was something they hadn't done since the days when England was still the taller of the two of them. Out of desperation, he raised his free hand in order to attempt just that, but could only bring himself to pat Canada's back a couple of times before dropping it again. Canada looked just as lost in the situation as England, his face as red as England's felt.  
  
Thankfully, providence, divine or otherwise, finally decided to get its arse in gear, and someone rang England's doorbell.  
  
"I'd better get that,” England said, giving silent thanks to whatever might be listening, and let go of Canada and rushed to answer the door with an alacrity that he hoped would be excused by his need to be a good host.  
  
His visitors turned out to be Jersey, Guernsey and Isle of Man, who were a little earlier than expected, but a very welcome sight, nonetheless, and only in part because of the much needed distraction they'd provided.  
  
"Merry Christmas, everyone,” England said, throwing the door open wide.  
  
"Looking a bit flushed there, England,” Jersey said as she stepped inside. "I hope that's from bending over a hot stove, making our breakfast. We're all starving.”  
  
England cringed. "I'm afraid I haven't made much of a start on it, so you might have to wait a while.”  
  
"I'm only joking, love, and now we're here we can pitch in and lend a hand, because I'm sure none of the other lazy sods are even up yet, are they?”  
  
"Thank you, Jersey,” England said, catching her hand and squeezing it gently.  
  
"Don't mention it.” Jersey squeezed his hand in return, and then kissed both of his cheeks. England endured it stoically, even though he usually shied away from the gesture, because Jersey, unlike France, was very unlikely to turn it into an opportunity to try and shove a tongue down his throat. "Merry Christmas, England.”  
  
Guernsey kissed his cheeks, too, but then pulled him into a tight hug afterwards. She'd threaded holly and ivy through the tie holding back her long blonde hair, just like her sister, and smelt delightfully Christmassy, so England lingered in the embrace slightly longer than he would usually.  
  
Isle of Man, on the other hand, smelt distinctly of fish, although that probably had something to do with the slightly clammy package he shoved at England after shaking his hand.  
  
"Thank you, _Mannin_. That's very kind of you,” England said, despite wondering where the hell he was going to find space in his fridge to store anything larger than a pea.  
  
By the time England returned to the kitchen, Jersey had already started frying sausages, standing beside Canada as he cooked his pancakes and chatting to him in French. Guernsey and Mannin were nowhere to be seen, but England presumed they'd gone to roust everyone else from their beds.  
  
Sure enough, whilst England was placing rashers of bacon on the grill pan, Scotland stomped into the kitchen and then slumped down at the table which ran almost the full length of the far wall. Despite usually being a morning person, he looked a little frazzled: his skin had a decidedly grey tint, and his dark hair was sticking up in spikes all over his head, as though he'd perhaps been running his hands through it compulsively.  
  
Although England suspected given the evidence at hand that Scotland's night might well have been plagued by the same worries that had also kept him awake, he couldn't help asking: "Sleep well, Scotland?”  
  
"Fuck off, England,” Scotland said, and then hurriedly added, "'Scuse my French, Jersey.”  
  
Jersey chuckled. "Scotland, you Neanderthal, who taught you all the worst curses you know?”  
  
"I know, I know. Sorry, I'm not exactly firing on all cylinders this morning.”  
  
Prussia walked through the kitchen door at the same moment that Jersey turned away from the Aga to face Scotland. He too looked a little worse for wear, the bags under his eyes even more pronounced than usual, but England's mind shied away from drawing any conclusions from that fact.  
  
Jersey stared at Prussia for a while, her lips twitching at the corners as though she didn't know whether to smile or frown, before mouthing, "What the hell?” towards England.  
  
"Canada's boyfriend,” England mouthed back. "Not got a clue why.”  
  
Jersey's lips eventually settled on a frown, an expression which was mirrored perfectly on Scotland's face. Canada, on the other hand, was positively beaming.  
  
"You timed that perfectly,” he said, hurrying over to hand Prussia a plate piled high with pancakes. "I made these for you.”  
  
Prussia leant forward as he took the plate off Canada, but then seemed to check himself, his eyes darting towards Scotland and then England. "They look awesome,” he said, pulling back and then seating himself at the opposite end of the table to Scotland, whereupon he set about the pancakes with all the grace of a bear which had just awoken from hibernation.  
  
"You look like you haven't seen food for a week, mate,” Scotland said, watching him with a look of horrified fascination. "Now, I don't blame you if you've been worried about eating anything in this house, but England can actually _cook_ breakfasts. It's dinner you have to worry about.”  
  


 

* * *

  
  
  
England's guests were also apparently convinced that he had a washing up fairy, as all of them save Canada abandoned him when it came to doing the dishes after breakfast.  
  
England had a suspicion that the only reason Canada had stayed behind was because he might want to take England up on his offer of a friendly ear. He looked to be constantly on the verge of saying something, but no matter how many times he glanced at England out of the corner of his eye, or wet his lips, nothing was forthcoming.  
  
England wished that he could gather up his courage and just ask Canada what it was he wanted to talk about, but the words kept sticking in his throat, seemingly unwilling to be vocalised. He was guiltily aware that that was probably because he didn't really want to talk to Canada about his relationship with Prussia at all. Whether it was casual, Canada believed it to be serious, or he was just attention seeking as Wales said, if England was truthful with himself, he'd much rather pretend it wasn't happening right now, and then a few months down the line when it would have all inevitably blown over, pretend that it had never happened at all. As it was, Canada kept his peace even after they put the last plate away and England suggested join they join everyone else in the living room to open their presents.  
  
"Finally,” Scotland said irritably when he caught sight of England in the doorway. "Is that dishwasher of yours just for decoration?”  
  
"I don't want to have to put in on twice today,” England said. "Honestly, Scotland, do you ever read any of those documents on climate change our boss gives us?”  
  
"Whatever, England, just get in here and open a bloody present, will you.” He gestured towards the small pile of gifts which someone, probably Wales or Jersey, had thoughtfully placed next to England's favourite armchair. "We're all bored of waiting.”  
  
Present opening had become an occasion hide-bound by esoteric rules over the years, and, as such, couldn't proceed until England, as host, opened the first one, no matter how bored anyone got. Stickler for tradition though he was, England couldn't help but feel that this one was a little redundant, as they all gave and received the same things every year, anyway.  
  
New Zealand would have knitted him something shapeless and lumpy that might vaguely resemble a jumper if one squinted; Jersey would have bought him book tokens; Wales would have written a poem to mark the day, which he would insist unto his dying breath was a more thoughtful gift than anything he could buy, and had nothing to do with his being a tightarse –  
  
England grabbed the first present that came to hand. It sloshed as he picked it up.  
  
– And Scotland would have bought him a bottle of his own favourite whisky, despite the fact that England himself wasn't particularly fond of it.  
  
Scotland's response to his opening it was as predictable as the present itself, so England was already asking, "Would anyone like a glass?” even as Scotland said, "Are you going to offer us some, England? It's never too early to start drinking at Christmas.”  
  


 

* * *

  
  
"So what does everyone fancy doing to fill in the time before the Queen's speech? Apart from drinking, of course,” England asked as he tidied away the last of the discarded wrapping paper.  
  
His only response was a series of pained-sounding groans.  
  
"We are watching the Queen's speech, no arguments,” he said, firmly. "She's your queen, too.”  
  
"Hey!”  
  
"Sorry. She's everyone's queen _except_ for Prussia,” England amended. "But don't think for a moment that means you won't be watching, as well.”  
  
  


* * *

  
  
"You can't just do whatever the hell you want, Scotland. There are rules," England said through gritted teeth.  
  
"No one uses the official rules, and according to house rules, the bank owes me two hundred pounds."  
  
"House rules?" England scoffed. "Well, this is my house, and I say we use the rules Waddingtons intended, and not the rules you've just made up on the spot because Australia's beating you."  
  
"Jesus, if something's printed on shiny paper with a logo at the top, you act like it's the Word of God, don't you." Scotland grabbed the piece of paper England was waving at him, and then tossed it over his shoulder. "Stop being such a stick in the mud, England. Isn't it more important to have fun than to get bogged down by the letter of the law?"  
  
"It's no fun for anyone but you if you just rig the game to make sure you win."  
  
"Two hundred pounds, please," Scotland said, ignoring England and holding out his hand towards Isle of Man.  
  
"Don't give it to him, _Mannin_ ," England said, glaring at his brother. "He's cheating."  
  
"Mine is just an alternative, yet still valid, interpretation of the rules," Scotland said, returning the glare and upping the ante with an accompanying lewd hand gesture. "Two hundred quid, please."  
  
Isle of Man seemed paralysed by indecision, his hand hovering, unmoving, over the brightly coloured banknotes. "I'm not sure –"  
  
He was interrupted by Wales' loud snort and subsequent repetition of, " _Mannin_ ," in a particularly withering tone.  
  
"What's your problem, Wales?" Scotland asked, not breaking eye contact with England. "You want to weigh in on this, too?"  
  
"No, not at all. I was just thinking how nice it is that England always uses _Mannin_ 's own language to address him, and not the name forced on him by the English."  
  
A slow smile spread across Scotland's face. Normally, he had little time for Wales' insistence that they start using his Welsh name again, but he had obviously sensed the opening of a new avenue of attack. "Yes, it is very nice of him, isn't it? Very thoughtful."  
  
England's right temple started to throb, warning of an incipient headache. "Scotland," he said pleadingly.  
  
" _Alba_ ," Scotland corrected, his grin widening and becoming shark-like.  
  
"England's right about these rules, you know," Australia piped up, holding aloft the paper Scotland had snatched from England earlier. "The bank doesn't owe you anything."  
  
Scotland lunged across the coffee table in a bid to retake the rules, sending a small cascade of badly-moulded metal tokens and miniature plastic houses pattering to the floor in his wake, and Australia scrabbled backwards, trying to keep them out of reach.  
  
The throbbing at England's temple intensified to a rhythmic pounding, akin to someone taking a tiny sledgehammer to the inside of his skull, and his vision began to swim a little. "Excuse me," he said, rubbing at his eyes with his knuckles in an attempt to massage the pain away. "I think I have to… go chop things in the kitchen."  
  
He made a dash for the door, and managed to get out into the hall and shut it behind him just in time that he could plausibly later plead ignorance that _Mannin_ and Wales were both calling his name.  
  
He leant back against the doorframe, closed his eyes, and breathed deeply, trying to clear his head. No matter how good his intentions beforehand, somehow their Christmases always ended up like this: just one bad break-up or poorly concealed murder away from an EastEnders holiday special. He had entertained some vague hopes this year that having some of the weans around would, by some festive miracle, pull them all together into the sort of happy, cohesive family unit showcased in the less melodramatic seasonal fare, but all it seemed to have done was added more sides to all their usual arguments.  
  
"Monopoly a wash, too?"  
  
It was Jersey's voice, so England didn't feel the need to open his eyes immediately and be on his guard once more. He nodded. "We should have learnt from the Trivial Pursuit debacle, I suppose," he said.  
  
England had known from bitter experience that Trivial Pursuit was never a good plan, but he nevertheless also had very firm ideas about what constituted appropriate Christmas entertainment. They hadn't even managed to finish one round before they were all embroiled in an argument over one of the official answers, the history category once again proving highly contentious given that all present had been personally involved in the event in question and apparently had very different memories of the same. The disagreement had continued for almost an hour, and had been on the verge of becoming physical before Wales finally stepped in and defused the situation by pointedly packing the game away and offering to fetch everyone fresh drinks.  
  
"Maybe you should have gone out on that walk with Prussia and Canada, after all." Jersey briefly pressed a wonderfully cool hand to England's forehead. "The fresh air might have done you some good. You're looking a little peaky."  
  
England surprised himself by agreeing. He had declined the invitation mostly due to his aversion towards uncomfortable third-wheelery, but it seemed as though that might still have been a preferable alternative to playing board games with Scotland. That thought led him onto a connected one which had been preoccupying him occasionally since the day before.  
  
"Does Prussia seem off to you at all?" he asked.  
  
"In what way?"  
  
"Just not quite so... Well, like himself, I guess."  
  
He'd remained neutral during the Trivial Pursuit war, rather than butting his way into the thick of things in the most hard-headed, irritating way possible as was typically his wont, and his uncharacteristic restraint unsettled England far more than any enthusiastic attempts to escalate the situation ever could. If not for the fact that he still laughed far too loudly at anything and everything, whether the occasion warranted it or no, England would have believed him replaced by a doppelganger, or perhaps his not-quite-so-evil twin.  
  
"I haven't felt the urge to strangle him yet, if that's what you mean," Jersey said. "Surely that's a good thing?"  
  
"I guess so," England said hesitantly, unable to quite put his finger on what was bothering him, aside from the vague feeling that this was just the calm before the storm. Relatively speaking, of course. "I suppose should be grateful that I don't have to put up with him being a wanker on top of Scotland, whatever the reason."  
  
Jersey hummed distractedly, and then asked, "I thought you'd said America would be here by now?" as though the question naturally segued from England's previous statement. "Any idea what's keeping him?"  
  
"Not a clue." England tried to make his reply sound off-hand, as though it were made by a person who had barely even noticed America's absence, and not one who had been compulsively checking both his answer phone and voice mail since he got up. "He'll no doubt turn up sooner rather than later. He won't want to miss Doctor Who."  
  
Jersey looked dubious, clearly unconvinced by England's attempt at nonchalance. "Perhaps you should ring him, just in case."  
  
"Maybe I will," said England, again trying to sound like a person who hadn't already been calling all of America's numbers with embarrassing frequency over the past few hours. "Well, whether he's going to turn up or not, I've still got to make dinner for everyone else. So, if you'll excuse me, I'd better –"  
  
"New Zealand and I have got everything in hand." Jersey caught hold of England's arm as he pushed himself away from the door. "You made us all breakfast, so dinner's the least we can do."  
  
England began to protest, but Jersey shook her head firmly. "You just go and relax, or something."  
  
The offer was a tempting one, as the ache in England's head doubled in intensity at the mere thought of working in a hot kitchen for several hours, but he was the host and couldn't in good conscience allow his guests to cook the very meal he had invited them to share with him. "Jersey, I couldn't possibly –"  
  
"Yes, you can, and you will." She made a shooing motion with her free hand. "Don't think I won't lock you out of the kitchen if I have to."  
  
As England opened his mouth to reply, something thudded against the inside of the living room door – probably the Monopoly box, hurled with force, but with an outside possibility of Australia's head – sending a fresh bolt of pain lancing across England's forehead in sympathy. He closed his mouth again. Now he thought about it, there was probably something very urgent he should be doing in his library.  
  
"Thank you, you're very kind," he told Jersey.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
Completing the previous day's _Times_ crossword wasn't exactly urgent by the strictest definition of the word, but England reasoned that the preservation of his sanity was essential for the good of his people, and as such, he was actually performing a public service. The library was still, cool, and silent, and by the time England settled down in one of the worn leather armchairs which dotted it with the paper and a strong cup of tea, his headache was already easing.  
  
He was startled awake after an indeterminate length of time by a tinny and jarring rendition of _Amazing Grace_. It took him several seconds of confused flailing – during which time he managed to upend the dregs of his now cold cup of tea into his lap – to recognise it as his mobile's ringtone, and thus he only just managed to answer it before it went through to voicemail.  
  
He attempted to greet his caller, but his mouth hadn't woken up to quite the same extent as the rest of his body, and all that emerged was an unintelligible mess of garbled fricatives.  
  
"England?" The voice was barely audible, but unmistakably America's.  
  
England cleared his throat and rubbed at his mouth with the back of his hand before attempting to speak again. "America, where the hell are you? You were supposed to be here –" he checked his watch – "hours ago."  
  
"…something…" Most of America's words were swallowed up by background noise; it sounded as though he were calling from inside a wind tunnel populated by stampeding wildebeest. "…couldn't… flight…"  
  
"Something came up and you missed your flight?" England guessed. "What are you planning on doing now?"  
  
The wildebeest were joined by some elephants, and what appeared to be a brass band falling down a flight of stairs, and England could not hear anything America said next, save for a single word that might have been 'box'.  
  
"You'll be here Boxing Day?" he asked, hopefully.  
  
The cacophony increased in volume before suddenly cutting out entirely with no answer forthcoming from America. England stared down at his mobile for a moment, contemplating whether or not he should try and ring back, before tucking it back inside his trouser pocket. America would either turn up at some point or he wouldn't; no amount of phone calls would change that.  
  
It was probably a good thing that America hadn't arrived when he had planned to, after all, England told himself. The day had been stressful enough without him there, and his presence often wore on England's nerves even under the best of circumstances. He would no doubt have caused trouble with Scotland; ganging together as they usually did to play the same puerile tricks on England as they had since the eighteenth century. He and Australia would have spurred each other on to be ever louder and more rambunctious until something expensive of England's was broken. And there would have been a fifty-fifty chance that he'd have started an argument with Canada, and thereafter odds-on that Canada would have made America cry.  
  
Yes, it was probably for the best he had not come. On the other hand…  
  
_On the other hand, you've got just enough time to change your trousers and still catch the beginning of Doctor Who if you stop pontificating and start moving right now,_ England admonished himself firmly.

 

* * *

  
  
Jersey and New Zealand had outdone themselves, and the food was delicious, but England felt his enjoyment of it would perhaps have been furthered by perhaps paying closer attention to the seating arrangements beforehand.  
  
He'd ended up sitting between Australia and Wales, and although both of them could be fairly pleasant company on a normal day, it had turned out to be an unwise decision. Wales was obviously still sulking about England's use of Isle of Man's Manx name earlier, and seemed determined to ignore England's existence, refusing to acknowledge his conversational sallies, and even a request to pass the cranberry sauce. Australia, conversely, was unable to speak. One side of his face had swollen like a balloon following his head-on collision with a bookcase during his tussle with Scotland over the Monopoly rules – the thud England had heard had indeed been the Monopoly box – and he was only just able to open his mouth wide enough to allow him to eat.  
  
As he ate, England enviously watched Mannin, Jersey, Guernsey and New Zealand carry on what looked like an enjoyable and spirited conversation that he didn't seem capable of breaking into himself without raising his voice to a volume unacceptable at the dinner table, but he also kept a weather eye on Scotland.  
  
Scotland had been drinking steadily and heavily since the morning, and his face was flushed a deep, angry red, his movements slow and clumsy. England suspected he had deliberately hung back in order to seat himself at the far end of the table, opposite Prussia and Canada, instead of next to England and Wales as he usually would. He also suspected that Scotland didn't have the purest of motives, given that he was glaring daggers at Prussia, and was somehow managing to sneer even whilst chewing mouthfuls of turkey.  
  
Unfortunately, England's suspicions were confirmed before they'd even had chance to make a start on second helpings.  
  
"What did you say?" Prussia's voice rang out above the background hum of laughter and scrape of cutlery against plates.  
  
Scotland shot to his feet, and banged both his fists down against the tabletop. "I know you heard me the first time, fucking Kraut."  
  
Prussia's response was predictable, but he'd launched himself across the table and knocked Scotland to the floor before England had even managed to summon the presence of mind to consider it. His trailing foot caught the edge of the table and it wobbled for a precarious moment, and then collapsed onto its side as England made a futile grab to steady it. Tureens, plates, and cutlery sailed through the air, raining food across England's recently-steam-cleaned carpet, before crashing against the wall to bleed gravy down the wallpaper.  
  
"What did you say?" Prussia repeated, crouching over the supine Scotland, one knee either side of his hips.  
  
Prussia's thumbs were pressed hard against his windpipe, so all Scotland could manage in answer was a wheezy chuckle. His hands patted around on the floor beside him, obviously looking for some kind of weapon, and England recognised the exact moment he found one, because his sneer finally reshaped itself into a smile.  
  
The sight of that smile shocked England out of the stunned inertia which seemed to have afflicted all of them, and he started towards the two nations with the intention of pulling them apart. He was too slow to stop Scotland swinging his right fist, however. It connected with the side of Prussia's head with a soggy squelch, and then Scotland smeared the mashed potato he was holding across Prussia's face.  
  
England's guts knotted painfully as he waited for the inevitable explosion, but after staring down at Scotland silently for a moment, his brows knotted in obvious confusion, Prussia started to laugh. He laughed, scraped the potato off his face, and rubbed it in Scotland's hair. Scotland retaliated by throwing a handful of carrots at Prussia, and then a second one towards Australia as he too started laughing.  
  
It all just deteriorated from there.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
England would have given his right arm for just one of the many types of cleaning fairy his lazy, ungrateful family obviously believed him in possession of. As it was, he just had his own two hands and Canada, whom England presumed was only helping him out of a sense of guilt for having inflicted Prussia on them all in the first place.  
  
Prussia and Scotland had ended up as allies in the food fight they'd started, taking on all comers from behind the cover of the overturned table. Prussia had also proved susceptible to Scotland's empty apology-brief hug-offer of alcohol routine, and the two had staggered into the living room after the ceasefire with their arms around each others shoulders. By the sounds of it, Prussia was now teaching Scotland a particularly lurid German drinking song.  
  
"I should have expected this to happen," England said, mostly to himself, as he scraped stuffing from the skirting board. "He was bound to blow up sooner or later from the strain of behaving himself for so long." The nebulous thing which had been niggling at England since Christmas Eve finally clicked into place, and he said to Canada: "You're the reason he's been on his best behaviour, aren't you."  
  
"Me?" Canada sounded a little surprised. "No, I don't think so. I mean, I never asked him to or anything. I think it was actually an attempt at self-preservation."  
  
"Self-preservation?"  
  
"Well, you and Scotland have looked like you wanted to tear him limb from limb since we arrived," Canada said quietly, stumbling over his words. "And even Wales made some very pointed comments last night…"  
  
"Nonsense, he was perfectly safe," England said, even though the evidence to the contrary was splattered against the walls and ground into the carpets all around them. He'd never had any intention of hurting Prussia – he'd been thinking more along the lines of throwing him out of the house, locking all the doors, and then booking Canada in for an emergency psychological evaluation – although it appeared Scotland may have had different ideas all along.  
  
Canada continued stacking the remaining intact crockery in silence for a while, before saying, "England, I know this must seem –"  
  
He was interrupted by Scotland bursting through the dining room door, brandishing an empty Stella bottle. "Please tell me you've got more booze, England."  
  
England sighed, annoyed by the disruption. "Cupboard above the –"  
  
"Finished that already."  
  
England was half-tempted to tell Scotland that he was drunk enough already, and he'd better stop drinking if he didn't want a sober Boxing Day, but he didn't think he was up to the task of dealing with the endless moaning which was bound to ensue in response. "There's more in the pantry. How are you getting through it so quickly, anyway?"  
  
"Drinking competition," Scotland said. "You should see how fast Prussia can down a pint. It's amazing, like he can just open his throat right up and…" Scotland snickered, then leered at Canada. "Canada, I think I can understand why you're dat–"  
  
"Pantry, now, Scotland," England shouted, shoving Scotland back out into the hallway, and then slamming the door closed behind him.  
  
He then slumped down into one of the few chairs which still remained upright, and rubbed at his temples with the heels of his palms: partly to ease some of tension which had started building there again, but mostly in a vain attempt to wipe away the image Scotland had managed to etch into his mind.  
  
"Why did I ever think this was a good idea?" he asked the world at large, tipping his head back to stare at the ceiling so he didn't have to look at Canada whilst said image was still fresh. There was a Brussels sprout lodged in the light shade above him, but he chose to ignore it.  
  
Canada's hand tentatively settled on England's arm. "At least it's nearly over," he said, although he did sound a little hurt.  
  
England started to nod, but then realised that although Christmas Day was almost over, there was still Boxing Day to come. Boxing Day, on which Ireland and Northern Ireland would join them, along with France – another brilliant suggestion of Scotland's that England really should have known better than to agree to – Sealand, and, by the sounds of it, America.  
   
And then, after that, there would be Hogmanay at Scotland's house, where no doubt everything would just be repeated in microcosm.  
  
On reflection, it was probably in his best interests to get so drunk that he passed out and didn't wake up until 2010.


End file.
